


the helmet stays on

by Ejunkiet



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Demisexual Din Djarin, Gender-Neutral Reader - Character - Freeform, Intimacy, Mutual Masturbation, Other, Shameless Smut, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, din takes on a passenger. you both get more than you had anticipated.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ejunkiet/pseuds/Ejunkiet
Summary: I hope you understand, he starts, his breath catching as your fingers slip under the edge of his shirt, grazing against the hair that trails down his lower abdomen, tracing the lines of the muscles there.The helmet stays on.A small smile curves up your lips, as if this had been something you had expected.I understand. That won’t be a problem.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 16
Kudos: 106





	the helmet stays on

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin. Enjoy~

He’s not used to this. Not used to feeling anything but his own hand, the easy, familiar touch of it, rhythm steady, true. It does the job, when all is said and done - keeps him focused, less prone to distraction.

In all fairness, he’s never had much interest in such things; had never sought it out after leaving the covert, or felt the need to.

That is, before you.

\--

It hadn’t started like this.

It hadn’t started _anything_ like this.

He had a mission; had been tasked by _creed_ to return the child to his people. Something that could not be ignored: a duty he was compelled to complete, on his honour, with his life.

You’re just a passenger he’d picked up along the way. Another mission to complete, another obstacle to be navigated, with a mutually beneficial outcome for the both of you. 

An arrangement of convenience, if nothing else.

That was, of course, before the Mynock they’d picked up in an asteroid belt had chewed through the razor crest’s outer shell to get into the powerlines supporting the exhaust engine, and you were both _kriffed_.

He’d been surprised at your calm in the crisis, and impressed by your ingenuity and savvy.

Together, you manage to keep the old ship stable until you could limp your way into port on some half-forgotten backwater planet - achieving a task he had thought practically impossible.

After, when you offer to assist with the repairs, he learns that you’re not only a decent pilot, but a passable engineer, with nimble fingers and a frame that allows you to fit within the engineering ducts that line the ship, uninhibited by the beskar armor he wears.

It’s later, while working in tandem to repair one of the _many_ breaches that litter the scarred hull, that it happens - a brief moment of contact, short and abrupt, but memorable, for all that it is fleeting.

The brush of your fingers against his wrist, where the thick material of his gloves has separated from the cuff of his undershirt, revealing the tan expanse of his skin. An accidental brush, for sure.

But he feels the heat of it like a bolt of blaster fire, nonetheless.

It’s – too much, and not enough, all at once. The brief skate of your fingertips across the bared inch of skin had sent a cascade of goosebumps prickling across his arm, the back of his neck.

His breath catches, drawing your attention, and there’s no hiding from this, not with the way your breath hitches in turn, pupils expanding until your eyes are dark, glinting in the reflected lights of the razor crest controls, and _karabast,_ now you _know_.

Your fingers brush against his wrist again, chasing the breath from his lungs - your movements gentle, testing. 

_Is this okay?_

He’s not used to being touched like this. Not used to the innocent brush of skin against skin, gestures made with no intent to harm. There was not much time for shared intimacies within the covert – although he’d had his fair share of fumblings in the dark during his youth - and it had been many years since he had sought out that sort of relief.

Maybe too long.

_Yes._

You smile. Your touch lingers, and he lets it. Feels the heat of you there, the rough pad of your oil-slick fingers, leaving dark streaks of grease as your fingertips trail up his skin, teasing at the cuff, a promise of more.

An offer, if he wants to accept it.

A chirrup from the corner breaks the moment - the child, awake from his afternoon nap and _hungry_ , soft coos growing in volume as he navigates his way across the ship to where you’re both crouched by the maintenance shaft, a veritable minefield of assorted wires and circuit boards littering the floor around you.

Reaching out to steady the child before he trips, Din tilts his head towards you to meet your gaze, taking in the way you’re already watching him, eyes steady and clear as water, waiting. 

He clears his throat, finding his voice.

_Later._

You nod, the heat of you pulling away as you draw your hand back.

He misses the touch immediately.

\--

 _I don’t do this often_ , he explains - feels like he has too, as he watches you shuck your workman’s gloves, your smock, every inch of revealed skin prickling something within him, a building warmth that he has not felt since - since long before the destruction of the covert. 

(And probably many Nevarro solar cycles before that.)

It’s late evening, and the kid has been tucked away into his sleeping nook, the locking mechanism of the hatch engaged - as secure as it’s gonna get, considering the kid and his abilities. He’s removed his armor - vambraces, pauldrons, breastplate - as well as the heavy woven padding beneath it - until all he’s left in is the thin shirt he wears for sleep.

He feels - exposed, but not vulnerable. Just, _seen._

Your hand is gentler than his, touches focused, precise as your fingers trace along the aspects of himself he has revealed to you, paths that he feels are safe for you to tread while keeping with his creed. The memory of Bo-Katan still lingers, but he prefers to adhere to the teaching that had been passed to him from his elders in the covert, the family that had adopted him as one of their own.

 _I hope you understand,_ he starts, his breath catching as your fingers slip under the edge of his shirt, grazing against the hair that trails down his lower abdomen, tracing the lines of the muscles there. _The helmet stays on_.

A small smile curves up your lips, as if this had been something you had been expecting.

_I understand. That won’t be a problem._

Carefully, slowly, your hands ease back up to traverse his torso, calloused fingertips mapping out the marks that score his skin, old scars and bruises he hadn’t even noticed before you found them. You work slowly, methodically, your eyes watchful as you take in his deeper breaths, the tension in his frame easing under your careful touch, until he releases a low sigh.

He reaches towards you - then pauses, hesitating inches from your skin, gloved fingers twitching reflexively.

 _I want to touch you._ His voice is low, frayed at the edges in a way he hopes is lost in the distortion of the helmet speaker, but suspects isn’t.

_Go ahead._

Encouraged by your gentle smile, he flicks the clasps at his wrists, easing off his armored gauntlets. 

(The skin beneath is as scarred as the rest of him, fleeting glimpses you’ve gotten during the course of your time together, a few short weeks that feel much longer, time stretching, losing its shape.)

Hands bare, he returns to his position in front of you. _Can I?_

Your smile widens as you take a step to close the distance between you, and he can feel the heat of your body against his skin, almost intoxicating. _Yes._

The first touch quickens his breath, his fingertips skating over the arch of your cheek, your skin soft beneath his calloused touch, so _soft_. It has been - a while since he has touched skin bare-handed - it’s not often that he finds himself in a situation where he can remove the gauntlets safely, especially since he’d become charged with the child.

You’re warm, warmer than he’d been expecting, a flush building beneath where his fingertips brush against your skin, tracing your jaw before following the line of your throat to your open collar. 

His fingers settle there, thumb resting against your pulse, reluctant to take the step that would move this further along - and with a click of your tongue, you pull away from him, reaching for the hem of your shirt.

With a quick movement, it’s gone, leaving you bare before him as his breath catches in his throat.

_Dank farrik._

You laugh, although he can tell from the crease in your brow that you aren’t familiar with the phrase.

_I'm guessing that’s a good thing?_

He takes a shuddering breath, stepping closer once more. _Yes. Yes, it is._

Reaching out to you once more, his hands skate down your sides, tracing the curve of your spine before pressing into your lower back. You arch beneath the touch, a gentle sigh leaving your lips, soft as a whisper, and it sends a shiver through him, a building heat pooling low in his belly. 

He wants to hear more of those sounds.

(He wants to hear everything.)

Your hands explore him in turn, teeth digging into your lower lip as your fingers splay against the heat of his stomach, navigating a sure, winding path to your destination. 

(The slow drag of your fingers will drive him insane.)

Glancing back up at him, you echo his words from earlier; voice hushed, almost breathless. _Can I?_

His breath stutters out of him, a harsh sound through the distortion of the helmet speakers. 

_Yes._ A pause. _Please._

Your hands slip lower, nimble fingers working quickly to undo the fastens of his pants, pushing the material low on his hips. Reaching further, your fingers trace along the dark line of hair there as he swallows a choked sound. 

His throat is as dry as bone as he tilts his head to catch your movements - but the thick band of the helmet blocks his vision. He watches your face instead, the wide dilation of your pupils, the flush that warms your cheeks.

Your fingertips brush against the hard heat of him, and he groans, a low, punctured sound as his hips jerk towards the touch.

His hands slip back around to your hips, squeezing there briefly as he tugs you in closer, grip flexing as he splays his fingers across your waist.

_Go on._

Your hand shifts, finding a better angle, before you take him within your grasp, and- _Karabast._

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, or try to, scanning across the plastasteel of the visor. 

_Is this okay?_

He manages a jerky nod, exhaling roughly, a harsh sound that crackles from the helmet. 

_Don’t stop._

With gentle pressure, you start to move, exploring the length of him, and the touch is soft and warm and different from your hand rather than his - and he swallows a sound as you pull away, bringing your palm towards your face, your dark eyes catching his as you stick out your tongue and lathe the width of it - and _oh._

His breath comes harder as your hand drops to grasp him again, slicker this time, and- _Frak._

His knees weaken, and he almost stumbles, his weight pushing the two of you forward until he steadies himself against the bulkhead, his other hand still gripping your hip as your free hand navigates the planes of his stomach, and _kriffing- dank farrik,_ he isn't going to last long like this-

Reaching down, his hand circles your wrist, stopping your movement.

_Wait._

He can see the shine in your eyes, can see that you're enjoying this just as much as he is - and he wants to return the favour, as much as he can.

Slipping his hand up to your cheek, he runs the pad of his thumb across the arch of your cheekbone before trailing down to your mouth. Resting his fingertips against your lower lip, he traces the softness there, a silent request - and the heat within him flares as you accept them with a muted hum.

And then your tongue swipes along his fingers, taking him in deeper, and his hips jerk in your grip, nearly dislodging you both.

(The warm, wet heat of your mouth could easily be his undoing.)

He presses his fingers down against your tongue, his breath catching as you hum, deep and low in the back of your throat, before pulling back, testing the wet of his fingers - and it's enough, he decides.

Dragging his fingers down your jaw, he lingers there a moment, watching you pant, before dropping down, down, past the hem of your trousers until he can feel the heat of you in turn.

He wants to memorize the noises you make as he touches you - keep it with him so he can listen to it again, in private, and remember the feeling of you against him, soft and slick, rocking against his palm. 

Your mouth falls slack, and he reaches up to tangle his fingers in the soft strands of your hair, gripping gently but firmly. He tilts your head back, revealing the long column of your throat and he wishes, for a moment, that he could taste you there, the sweat on your skin.

The thought passes as easily as it had come, an impossible wish, and he shifts his hips, thrusting back up into your hand, releasing a sharp breath as your grip tightens reflexively.

 _Just like that._

Now it's your voice that's breathless, a flush building high on your cheeks as you grin down at him, and he eases his grip, bringing you back to him, watching your reactions as he twists his fingers, the way you gasp and tremble within his arms.

 _Together,_ he confirms, moving again, and- _Dank Farrik-_

Something twists within him when he hears you moan, the only name he's given you falling from your lips - _Mando, kriff- yes._

You’re close, he thinks, and he is too, just a little more-

 _Din,_ he gasps, barely audible over the sounds of the two of you together, because it doesn’t matter, not really - and because he wants to. _My name._

 _Din,_ you whisper back, eyes wide and dark, and that’s when he breaks, the rising wave cresting over him, whiting out his vision as he jerks, spilling into your hand - and he’s grateful when he hears your accompanying moan, feels the way you shudder against him.

A few more moments of gentle movement, rocking through the aftershocks, and then it’s done.

You take a moment to catch your breath, and his head drops down against your shoulder, careful, mindful of the weight of the beskar. He can feel the heat of you where his shirt has rucked up, soft and sweat-slick against his stomach, and it’s a feeling he will remember for many cycles after this, a memory that will carry him through the long nights.

Thank you, he doesn’t say.


End file.
